


Proof Enough

by K9Lasko



Series: Distance and Waning Guilt [2]
Category: NCIS
Genre: Domestic Violence, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 00:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1585721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K9Lasko/pseuds/K9Lasko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now, looking at him is like peering into a void. This isn't like the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proof Enough

**Author's Note:**

> (Original Publication Date: May 7, 2014)

Abby comes around Gibbs' place early, before nine. She's got a cardboard box in her arms. She greets him at his door, face guilty. He lets her in, offers her coffee with a wave of his hand. She declines. He sits and watches her over the newspaper he's pretending to read.

"That's not his," he points out. "But he can have it, if he wants it."

She looks at Gibbs then. Truly sees him for the first time today. She's bothered; he can tell. He's known her longer than he's known Tony, but not quite as well. She sets the CD aside.

"Woulda thought he'd come himself," he says as he turns a page. He reaches to grab his coffee, but it's grown cold.

She doesn't answer him, only picks up the box and says, "I'll just grab his toothpaste and stuff. I think that's what he really wants."

"He can come here and move out on his own."

"That's pretty callous, Gibbs."

He looks away. "How's his head?"

"Better." Abby shrugs, her arms full of box.

"I've tried calling. He never answers."

"He's messed up over you right now."

"I can't apologize."

Her expression turns harsh. "You should. You hit him awfully hard, Gibbs."

"He hit himself against a workbench, Abs."

"Not the point." She goes to turn around and head up towards the second story master bathroom, but he stops her with his voice.

"Hey, that wasn't my point either." Gibbs folds up the paper and lays it in a mess on the table. It isn't like him to leave anything in a mess, even relationships. To him, there ought to be a beginning and an end. Clear cut. Nothing left flying in the breeze. 

"I'm not the one you should be talking to," Abby says. "You know I respect you, Gibbs--"

He shakes his head. "I was drunk. He was angry. I threw a glass at him. Almost didn't miss. I grabbed him, put my arms around his neck. Barely knew what I was doing until it was over."

"He said he started it."

"Only realized what I'd done when he was sitting there on the floor, crying and throwing up on himself."

Abby flinches. She hugs the box tightly.

He goes on, "You can't apologize for doing that to somebody you're sleeping with. It's completely out of line."

"You need to talk to him."

"You're not listening to me, Abby," Gibbs raises his voice and gives her a hard look. "You think he's just gonna forget what happened?" He holds up his hands briefly. "What these hands did to him?"

"No--"

"He's probably pissed. Probably wants to give me a piece of his mind, before or after he knocks me hard in the face. Abs-- you wanna be a friend to me and a friend to him, go ahead. But what happened between Tony and I, that's our business. It won't be going away. And I accept that."

Abby frowns, face falling like a flag that has suddenly lost the breeze. "That's awfully fatalistic, Gibbs."

"It was a bad idea right at the start. You know Tony."

"He's good for you," she whispers.

"I'm bad for him." He gets up, joints stiff, and moves to put his cold coffee mug in the microwave. He's dismissed Abby, and she knows it.

"You're wrong," she challenges anyway.

"Stop. Just stop." He stands facing the microwave as it hums -- his mug spinning around and around -- and listens to her feet stomping up his hardwood stairway. He shuts his eyes, sucks in a breath, and when the microwave beeps, jarring him back to this moment, he knows it's over. It was over the moment that glass left his hand.

 

**

 

She comes around Tony's place later in the morning, closer to noon time. She sweats in the summer heat. She's got the cardboard box in her arms as she teeters up the stairs and heads for his door. It's full and heavy, the contents threatening to break through the taped bottom. It's everything he requested, or at least most of it. It had gotten awkward, digging through their things, Tony's and Gibbs' things -- even for Abby, who was at heart a good-intentioned snoop.

She knocks on the door with her boot and hitches the box up in her arms. No one answers. She swears under her breath as the sweat continues to gather on her brow. She knocks again, and waits.

The door opens a crack. "Oh, hey," Tony says. It shuts again, but only for long enough for the chain to be undone. This is a nice place, but the neighborhood has seen better days. 

So has Tony, it seems. His eyes are rimmed by an ugly shade of blue-black. A bruise blossoms from his temple, and his left eye is blood-shot and squinted. He tilts his head as if his ear bothers him.

Abby stares at him from the doorway. "Jesus, Tony. You said it was looking better."

"It is," Tony assures. He takes the box from her and sets it on the kitchen table. He looks unshowered, as if he's just woken up. And despite the heat outside, he wears a turtleneck. "Thanks for getting my stuff."

"That isn't everything."

"I know. Shut the door, will you?" He turns and pours himself and Abby a drink, a few fingers of rum. It was the first bottle within reach.

She shuts the door, but she hasn't moved from the doorway. "It's barely noon on a Sunday."

"Yeah?" He leans against the kitchen counter and holds up the glass, studying how the artificial light passes through it. "After Friday night, I need a drink. Believe me."

"I believe you," she offers. She's trying for empathy without the accompanying pity. Tony isn't looking for pity, despite the way his face looks... like he's gone through a losing round in the boxing ring.

"Cheers." He tips the glass up and drinks.

"You coming to work tomorrow morning?" she asks.

"No." He takes another drink, almost empties it. He gives himself a refill. It's good rum. Only the best for Tony DiNozzo.

"Why?"

"Look at me," he snaps, and then he repeats it, louder, harsher. "Look at me, Abby. I'm sore as hell. I gave myself a fucking concussion. Gibbs is pissed at me. That enough is apparent. He damn well was when he threw that fucking glass at me. I need--" He stops, if only to breathe and drink a little more. He winces at the ringing in his ear. "I need time to cool off."

He isn't afraid, he tells himself. Not afraid of the sudden fury that came from the man who wasn't entirely immune to such emotion. It's only the fact that it had been directed at him. The fact that it was physical and violent.

"I thought I was making a good decision out there," Tony admits. "I still feel it was a good decision. I have to make tons of decisions. Everytime we're out there, I do. I try my best. I'm trying."

"We know you are." Abby moves from the door and into the kitchen. She picks up the glass and drinks. It's really the only show of solidarity she can offer.

"You can't speak for him."

"Who says I am? Tony, this is hard--"

Tony shakes his head, although he's sure to be gentle with the motion. "I can't talk to you about this, Abs. It's wrong. You're my friend and his friend, and I can't expect you to play mediator."

"I'm willing."

"He told me we're better off apart. I agree with him."

"No you don't." She moves forward and grabs his hands, holding them palm to palm.

It's not fear, Tony assures himself again. Except it keeps coming up. In some dark and perverse way, this entire situation is laughable, ridiculous. He's brought all of this on himself.

He removes his hands from hers. "I don't know what to say."

"He wants to talk to you," Abby presses. "He's tried to call."

"Good for him, but I don't want to talk to him."

"Tony--"

He's blunt with her. "Come back to me when you've been nearly choked out and had your head bashed in by your boyfriend. Until then, I don't think you've got a stake in this conversation."

"But you said--"

"Yeah I started it, but he sure as hell finished it. Is my face right now not proof enough, Abby? He sure showed me who was boss."

She's quiet after that, and they stare at each other. His eyes are glazed. Not drunk from the rum, but stoned on something.

"You shouldn't be drinking," she says.

"I'm fine." Tony is pulling things out of the box now, taking inventory of what possessions of his made the journey to Gibbs' place. "I need a story though. Something that'll explain this." He gestures at his face.

"I'm not here to defend him. You know that right?" Abby feels herself being pulled in two directions at once. Last time this happened, things were easier. Tony hadn't left anything to chance. He'd given Gibbs an ultimatum. Gibbs accepted it. Things had been good. Things had been going good for so long.

But this time, Tony is more shell-shocked than angry. He's spooked. Like he doesn't know what to do or what to expect, like a rug's been dragged out from under him.

This time, looking at him is like peering into a void.

Tony doesn't answer her. He's still staring at his things spread out on the table.

Abby doesn't know what'll happen if she leaves, but she steps out and shuts the door anyway.


End file.
